


Ad Meliora

by suspectmind



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, i dont know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25740520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suspectmind/pseuds/suspectmind
Summary: exalt!inigo n retainer!gerome vignettes
Relationships: Azur | Inigo/Gerome
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my first thought was 'let me get this down on paper' and then 2 glasses of rum later i had 2000 words done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerome doesn't talk much.

It’s a gradual thing when it starts. A nod here, a shrug there. By the time Inigo notices, the handsigns are almost second nature. Gerome still speaks, of course. He’d have long since abandoned his post if he didn’t feel fit for it. Inigo watches from the balcony, where his retainer (General? Captain? Nurse?) speaks with one of the pegasus knight lieutenants, gesturing as he does so. Inigo wonders if he ever finds it as strange as he does himself, being considered a veteran of an old war, despite being the same age as many of the new knight volunteers.

The orange sun beats down on the sky, a stark contrast to the apocalyptic ash they’d seen barely a year and a half ago. It’s bright and cheerful and, despite everything, it makes him smile. 

The first time they saw that sunset together he’d cried. Of course, Gerome had bristled and comforted him very poorly, but stayed with him all the same. He runs a hand through his hair. Overly long, now, and in dire need of a haircut he’s certain he won’t find time for. It wasn’t like rebuilding the Halidom netted him much time for primping. He sighs. Or dancing. Even on evenings like this, on his rest days, he has documents sprawled on his desk, detailing whatever pressing matter they discuss in the next meeting with the councilmen and township representatives. (It’s aqueducts this time around, and various other water sources. Inigo’s never had to be so well-versed in infrastructure.) 

He leans on his railing. At least this year, there will be flowers in town. In between the scattered rain showers and the steady sunlight, there’s been more joyous chatter in the streets and among the maids since he’d assumed the role of ruler. With the spring festival fast approaching, he wonders if he can’t sneak out of the townhouse to take part in the dances. What he wouldn’t give to slip into something comfortable and take the soft hand of some village maiden and...make her smile. He sighs. It was difficult to curb that need in the meetings, serious as they are. The novelty of a male dancer was often enough to get it out of a tired townsperson. He’d even had a move for it! A deft pirouette, followed by a--

Inigo stops himself. He takes a deep breath. Aqueducts. He needs to focus on aqueducts, lest the vividity of this...daydream claim him. The sky has already shifted from orange to purple when he was looking. He looks down and spots his retainer, face lit by the lanterns. Without the mask, his face is easy to make out, hard lines and all. He jerks his chin in Inigo’s direction. During the time they’ve spent together, Inigo has found the meaning behind it. It always means something like ‘ _What do you say_ ?’ or ‘ _What are my orders_?’ or just plain ‘ _What_?’ if he’s not feeling generous. Inigo flashes him a smile and waves him up. 

If he has to suffer through aqueducts, he can at least have Gerome massage his feet or bring him tea while he does it. 

**

It’s late enough Inigo finds himself daydreaming again, this time of dances with his mother. This sort of melancholy usually means he’s been up far too late or that he’s due for a break from the stress, one that the clinician and Gerome both agree is mandatory. The latter is currently occupying the seat in front of him, fast asleep. It can’t be comfortable, Inigo muses, as these seats are geared more towards function. On purpose even. The tea in front of him has long since gone cold, completely untouched. Inigo snorts softly. It figured that when Inigo picks out a fruit tea, Gerome lets it sit just long enough that he won’t have to drink it.

He’d hung his cape on the rack by the door, all dark griffin feathers and heavy, a scant hour ago, and then had the nerve to fall asleep nary a word said between them. He’d used his handsigns of course; _How are you_? _Trouble_? _Can I help_? Honestly, Inigo was uncertain what that specific signal meant, beyond what it meant to him. He’d asked for tea, and Gerome had complied.

Inigo sighs, then takes the cold cup in front of the knight and drains it. He grimaces. Far too strong, left to steep until the balance was thrown off. Gerome doesn’t stir. 

There were many differences between them, in the way they dealt with not having to deal with the end of the world. Gerome’s throat closed up sometimes. Inigo disappeared into his own head on occasion. Gerome kept his armour on, his gloves, his boots, his cape. (Not his mask, though. Not anymore. Whether this was a gambit he was holding onto, or he got tired of the tanlines and the marks on his skin it left behind, Inigo was left to speculate.) Inigo tore off his shoes, his cape, his crown as often and as soon as he could. They had shared their late nights though, more often now than ever.

Inigo sighs. Perhaps that’s why he was perturbed. Gerome being tired, _and_ tired enough to fall asleep in his shitty weaved chair? It left Inigo awake and alone. He wouldn’t wake him, of course. That would be unfair. He’d had a whole day of drills and briefings and security checks for this townhouse they were in while the rebuilding of the palace was in limbo. Inigo watches Gerome’s eyelids flutter. It wouldn’t be fair of him to wake the knight.

He scrubs his hands down his face. He isn’t going to get anything new conquered in the realm of aqueducts today. There’s a draft coming in from his open balcony. If he leans back, he can see the stars, and there’s a solace in that. Perhaps his sister sees the same sky, wherever in time she is. He would discuss it with Gerome, but unfortunately, the knight finds it most difficult of all to discuss their missing friends. 

Inigo frowns. Come to think of it, he’d been talking less and less. And only to him. Inigo has found him giving orders to the lieutenants and new knights. Even to the maids and advisors. But somehow, when he comes to Inigo, his jaw clamps shut and he taps his chest or chin, or makes a gesture for Inigo to interpret. “ _It’s hard._ ” is what he said, when Inigo asked him about it. “ _It’s hard to talk sometimes. I don’t know why_.” He hadn’t pressed again.

The knight shifts in his seat, arms loosely crossed, head fall forward. It breaks his train of thought. It makes him smile. Who knew the redhead could sleep so heavily? Rising from his seat, Inigo pulls the fur-lined cape he’d hung over his chair earlier, and drapes it over Gerome’s sleeping form. The cold will start to set soon. Even in early spring, the cold still bit. He hopes it doesn’t rain too heavily during the festival. He wanders over to the balcony again, feet bare against the stone. His mother told him they threw balls often, for charity, for nobility, to perform for the commonfolk. He remembers Maribelle and Lissa sharing their memories too, of her dances, the music, the cheer in the air. 

He thinks of Brady and his heart aches. He thinks of Lucina, of Owain and Cynthia and Severa. Of all his friends. Inigo feels the tears prick the corners of his eyes. If they’d been here, he could have asked Lucina for guidance. Owain and Brady for levity. Cynthia and Severa for aid with the knights and restoration. He wipes at his eyes, then takes a breath to steady himself. He has Gerome, he reminds himself. And Gerome’s doing the work of many, and still makes Inigo his priority, despite being stretched so thin. 

Inigo snorts. He wonders what Gerome’s reaction would be if he asked him to dance at the festival. He can imagine his lips twisting into a frown and his brow furrowing, everything in his body screaming “ _please don’t make me dance_ ,” despite his mouth saying “Yes.”

That strikes him. He watches Gerome sleep. Despite the knight’s words failing him, his throat closing up whenever he speaks to Inigo, despite the recruits and maids and migraines and new responsibilities, he trusts him enough to sleep in his shitty, uncomfortable chairs, in his drafty room with his boots still on. He trusts him enough to follow his lead, despite not knowing _where_ he's being led. Moonlight pours over his pale skin, and Inigo finds it hard to tear his eyes away. Gerome trusted him enough to stay in Ylisse. To effectively stall his wyvern conservation. Or perhaps he felt as alone as Inigo did. That’s why he offered respite where he could. 

“Are you okay?” The scratchy voice startles Inigo out of his thoughts. Gerome faces him, dark shadows under his eyes.

Inigo smiles broadly. “I could be asking you, sleepy.”

He sits up, carefully folding Inigo’s royal capelet. “I apologise.” He gestures as he says it, making a circle on his chest with his fist, then jerks his chin in the direction of the desk drowning in documents. _How are you_? _Trouble_? _Do you want help_?

“I’ve absorbed all I’m willing to.” there’s a pregnant pause, where Gerome busies himself with picking up the empty cups and plates, dishes quietly clattering in the quiet of the room. “We haven’t spoken in a while.” he’d be lying if he said it didn’t bother him. “I don’t mean to pry. I just…” he purses his lips. “I miss talking.” _I miss you talking_.

Gerome meets his eyes, and it’s still so unnerving to know that they’re hazel when they’re not hidden by a mask. Or perhaps Inigo still shies away at a steady gaze. Gerome starts to bring his hand up but stops. “I’m speaking to the clinician about it.” he says, hesitantly. “I can’t help it sometimes. The...signs are so I’m not...misunderstood.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Inigo blurts out. “I just meant---I miss you.”

Gerome frowns. He inclines his head in question-- _I'm right here?_ \-- and Inigo smiles. It’s like he doesn't _realise_ he’s doing it. 

“I know you’re here. It’s a great comfort to _have_ you here, Gerome.” He grins momentarily as the knight’s ears pink. “I just...want you to be okay.”

Gerome’s gaze softens. “I could say the same.” he smiles crookedly. “It would do you some good to speak to the clinician yourself.”

The blue haired man frowns, despite being distracted-- just for a second -- by that smile. “They’re just daydreams, Gerome. They’re not an issue.”

He doesn’t meet his eyes. “If you say so.” 

“I _do_.” Inigo says. “Now, if you’re done snoozing on my loveseat, quiz me on aqueducts. I won’t be caught out this time. Not like with the grain silos.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inigo daydreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im whiskeyrrose on tumblr!

Sometimes Gerome curses the fact that the townhouse had only room for one bedroom on the top floor. It means each time there’s an emergency, he has to climb a set of stairs. It’s not that he becomes winded easily, or even at all given the drills he runs early in the mornings and late evenings, but the fact that his steps are always too loud. He hasn’t any subtlety at all when it comes to sound. The maids all face him as he ascends the stairs. 

“Where?” he asks, and the scatter, giving him a path to the Exalt’s quarters. He pushes open the door, and two more maids step aside from the wall. The door to the bathroom is shut, and the carpets are wet beneath it.

“It’s locked,” one of the maids say. “We can’t get in, and the Exalt won’t answer us.” She sounds distressed.

“Lay out some clothes.” Gerome says. “Then tell everyone to retire. I will handle this.”

It takes him a few tries, but the door already creaked and the hinges don’t hold for long. Gerome rolls his shoulder. There will be a bruise blooming on his arm tomorrow. 

There Inigo lies, bathwater gone cold, hair still wet. The lantern flickers. He’s not sure how long he’s been there. He calls him name, and the Exalt doesn't respond, despite his eyes being open. Gerome touches his face gingerly. “Inigo?” he tries.

Inigo hums, entirely not present. But he’s alive. He’s breathing fine. He may catch a cold from stagnating in lukewarm water, but he will live. Gerome pulls a rough linen towel from the weaved basket by the bath. He rolls up his sleeves. Inigo isn’t difficult to lift.

On occasion, the spells he falls under when he’s stressed leave him in a dazed state. It had happened once during a meeting, and that had shaken Inigo to the core, despite him saying nothing. He’d had the nerve to smile when Gerome brought it up. _Daydreaming_.

“You’re lucky,” Gerome says, once he’s settled on the bed. “You didn’t _drown_.”

Inigo says nothing, even as Gerome dries his hair and dresses him. He pulls the covers back and makes sure the Exalt is practically enveloped in the goosedown, then rises to address the maids huddled outside the door. 

“He’s fine.” he’s painfully aware of how scratchy his voice sounds. “Send breakfast in the morning, then the clinician in the afternoon.”

“Are you rescheduling the meetings, milord?” one asks. 

Gerome nods. “It will need to be done.”

“My lord, what should we do?”

“Should we get the door fixed?”

“Shall I bring you a change of clothes, my lord?”

Gerome’s throat closes up when he opens his mouth, and he shakes his head instead. He gestures, rather rudely, for silence. He’s tired. “You can retire for the evening. I will call if there’s anything else.” The title bestowed upon him makes his finger itch. He'd never claimed any sort of moniker, let alone a lordship. There's too much of his parents in him for it to feel comfortable. Slowly, the maids turn down the hall, some glancing back for reassurance.

\--

A hand on his shoulder rouses him from his sleep. Gerome blink, eyes adjusting to the light spilling in from the gaps in the thick red curtains. Inigo quirks a brow. “There was room on the bed, you know.”

Gerome shifts his seat. “When did you wake?”

“Maybe 10 minutes ago,” Inigo purses his lips rather guiltily. “Was I out again?”

The knight nods. “You’d locked yourself in the bathroom.” The expression on Inigo’s face is pained. “The maids called me.”

Inigo grimaces, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I suppose that’s why the door is propped up against the wall. No locksmith available after hours?”

“They were worried.”

Inigo sighs. “I do hate making them worry.”

Gerome lifts his chin. “If you had a wife, she would tend to you. This wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Again with the _wife_ \---I’m not marrying someone just to continue the bloodline, Gerome.” he snaps. “If I marry, -- and that’s a big _‘if’_! -- I’ll marry someone I love.”

Gerome’s relieved he’s in high enough spirits to argue. He very nearly tells him such, but Inigo looks...perturbed. He nervously itches at his collarbone. “Did anyone see me?” he asks quietly. “Any of the maids I mean?”

Gerome shakes his head. “Just me.” he says. The first time it had happened during something important, Inigo had been very quick to fall into a panic. Not enough for him to actually talk to the clinician about it, but definitely enough for it to be palpable. Like now. The knight can practically see the lump in his throat.

Inigo swallows thickly, but doesn’t say anything. Gerome rises from his seat to draw open the curtains. The room floods with light. It’s pleasant out. “Someone will arrive shortly with breakfast for you,” he says. “Your meetings have been postponed.” He approaches the bed and folds his arms behind him. “Get some rest today.”

Inigo frowns. “You can’t just postpone my meetings without my approval.” he says.

Gerome nods. “I’ll take that under advisement for next time, _my lord_.” he pauses. “I’ve called for the clinician today, as well.”

The Exalt’s face falls. “Gerome--it’s just- they’re just daydreams.” he protests helplessly.

“Your door and my arm say different.”

Inigo grimaces, not meeting his eyes. He looks hurt, but he makes no further arguments. Gerome bows curtly, then makes his way to the double doors leading to the halls. He hesitates, once again.

“If you’ve forgiven me by this evening, I was hoping you’d join me for dinner.” he says. He’s relieved he gets it all out. He doesn’t hazard a look back at Inigo, until he hears his name.

“Gerome. _Gerome_ ,” Inigo says, half out of his bed. “Gerome. I need to know. Do you---Are you in love with me?”

He opens his mouth to answer, and his chest tightens. He shuts his mouth, but doesn’t let it consume him, just like he'd practiced. He nods. _Yes_. And hopes Inigo speaks to the clinician.

\--

Later, Gerome finds a bouquet left by the maids in his room, as gratitude for aiding their Exalt. And soon after that, Inigo joins him for dinner, sounding more self-assured than he had in weeks. Enough to complain how he hates the taste of wine, despite drinking it, or the mushrooms, despite eating them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inigo is annoying and Gerome's a little dense.

“Gerome.”

He blinks awake in the darkness of his quarters-- his _private_ quarters-- and shifts in his sheets. Groggily, he rises up on his elbows. “What?” It had been barely 20 minutes since his head had hit the pillow, 30 since he’d left Inigo’s room. 

“When did you become such a heavy sleeper?” The shadow teases, bright blue mark moving closer in the dark. “Also, what kind of greeting is that? I could have been an assassin.”

“If you were, I’d be dead already.” Gerome says, voice gravelly with sleep. “And you’re the only one with a key.”

“Don’t _I_ feel special. Scoot over.” 

Sighing, Gerome shifts underneath the heavy covers. Winter in Ylisse made it easier to sleep at least. The Exalt tucks himself under his sheets, making himself very comfortable indeed. Once he’s adjusted and the air stills again, Gerome feels his eyes flutter shut. He’s roused when Inigo sighs near his ear. And again when Inigo presses a bare knee against his leg. And _again_ when he feels Inigo jostle him. He turns his head, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Propped up on his elbow, Inigo looks like he has something to say.

“What?” Gerome croaks.

Inigo shrugs. “I had a...stressful day,” he says.

Gerome hums. “You told me earlier.” He had complained at length, while divesting himself of his robe and cape and crown. Everything from difficult foreign dignitaries, conflicting trade routes and a pimple. _I haven’t had a pimple since I was a teenager, Gerome!_ He had said. Somehow that had been what he’d focused on. Probably because it was easiest.

He feels Inigo run a finger down the crook of his elbow, under the covers. The mark in his eye is trained carefully on him. Gerome turns over to face him. He tilts his head. _What’s on your mind_?

“I’ve told you everything already.” Inigo says. He sounds annoyed. “I’m just...tense.”

Gerome shuts his eyes. “So?” 

In the ensuing silence, Gerome very nearly falls asleep again. Inigo mumbles something he can’t quite make out, then presses against him. Gerome shifts and curls around him, tucking his head under his chin. Inigo sighs something against his chest but Gerome’s drifted too far to make any sense of it.

  
  


***

  
  


“You have nothing here but soap.” Inigo complains, head ducked into his basin. “What am I going to use for this pimple?”

Gerome rubs his eyes blearily. “Just cover it with your hair.”

“That’ll only make it worse!” Inigo sighs into a linen towel. “I need it to clear up before more appear.”

“I don’t use creams.”

Inigo looks at him through the intermediary of the mirror. “You should. It would take care of those dark circles.”

Gerome leans his head back against the headboard, eyes shut. What had he done to earn the Exalt’s ire like this? He’d worked through meeting notes with him the evening before, brought in feroxi sultanas like he’d wanted for tea _and_ let him crawl into his bed when his own mattress seemed insufficient.

“Gerome.”

Gerome grunts. 

“ _Gerome.”_

He sighs, straightens his neck, sets his shoulders and opens his eyes. “Yes, sire?”

Inigo’s facing him now, rather belligerent, despite being in his smallclothes. He stares a moment, haughty, then sighs and approaches the bed. Gerome hesitantly shifts to make room when he’s nudged in the side. He’s doubly taken aback when Inigo brings his hands up to his face and kisses him.

“Next time,” Inigo says, once he’s pulled away, face flaring red. “ _Take_ the _hint._ ”

Catching his meaning, Gerome’s face pinks too. “I—-oh.” He says dumbly, and suddenly Inigo’s strange behaviour the evening before makes sense.

—

The way other veterans of the war sign to him from across the yard makes the younger recruits less cautious about adopting the signing amongst themselves. As loathe as he was to reveal this weakness before, it’s become a rather helpful boon now. 

He whistles sharply amidst drills, feeling the old twinge in his shoulder. His lieutenant turns sharply at attention. He signs for her to take over, and she does with aplomb. 

Gerome puts his training gear away, fully intending to make his way to Inigo’s quarters for tea. He sighs when he catches a glimpse of himself in a dull shield nearby. Thanks to the Exalt’s primping, he’d not had a moment to shave, face rough and patchy in odd places. He pauses, unconsciously bringing his fingers to his lips. Had he really looked like this when Inigo kissed him this morning?

“There you are!” 

Gerome jolts, dropping his hand just a moment too late. Inigo’s branded eye follows the movement and a smile twitches at his mouth. “Hope I’m not interrupting,” He grins.

Gerome frowns, embarrassed, jerking his chin at the Exalt. _What do you want_?

“Join me for tea.” He says, then he glances at the blunted iron sword hanging on the armoury wall. “Bring a sword, and your weapon of choice. I'm a little rusty. And _tense._ ”

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inigo visits some graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this chapter has mentions of death!

***

Olivia’s grave has become a shrine to the late Queen of Ylisse. Inigo had had mixed feelings about this, up until he arrives during the cold winter months on the anniversary of her death, and finds bouquet after bouquet of flowers, note after note of wishes and prayers and a beautifully carved bust at her grave site.

It had been growing for a very long time, with hardy mountain blooms and Feroxi charms and beautiful jewellery hung on the branches of trees nearby. Inigo sees shimmers in the lake too, gold and gems holding the wishes of every dancer, troubadour and bard that sought to visit.

“It’s beautiful.” he breathes. “Everytime I see it, I’m shocked.”

Gerome hums quietly beside him. He seems sour that Inigo had insisted on leaving their unit of knights behind. Odd, that, considering they were both armed, flanked not a whistle away by a wyvern, and Gerome was more than adequate protection on his own.

Besides that, none of the dancers here seemed armed, scantily-clad for the weather as they were. Inigo approaches the gravestone and kneels.

“The statue is new,” Inigo says cheerily. “It’s a rather poor likeness, but I suppose it can’t be helped that the only painting of you is hanging in the townhouse. Hello, mother. I’m glad you’re well.” He speaks to her for a while, shifting to sit cross-legged, like he and his mother used to when they played together in Maribelle's garden.

Gerome doesn’t quite fidget. He does, however, tense when they’re approached by a dancing troupe on their pilgrimage. They bow immediately when they realise who he is.

“You don’t need to bow,” he reassures. “I’m here paying respects as well. Did you come to dance?”

“Yes, milord!” one of the girls answers. “We have a routine planned and we weren’t sure if we were ready to debut--”

Inigo beams. “That sounds lovely! Might we sit in? I would have performed for her myself but I’ve not had the time to prepare anything lately.”

The girls seem ecstatic to perform for royalty.

  
  


***

  
  


“I can’t imagine it.” Gerome says, on their walk back to the carriage.

“What?” Inigo asks.

“Having a grave turn into…”

“A shrine?” Inigo scoffs. “She was well-loved.”

“It’s unseemly.” Gerome says.

Inigo frowns at him. “She deserves to be remembered!”

“They didn’t even _know_ her.”

Inigo lets out an incredulous laugh. “Neither did _you_.” he says. “And yet they paid to commission a statue of her. And you still come with me. Would you rather wait in the carriage?”

Gerome doesn’t speak.

“Honestly, if this business of visiting my mother’s grave on her death anniversary is too _unseemly_ for you, then I would happily take Lieutenant Palla or Sir Lowen.”

Again, Gerome doesn’t speak. Inigo turns to look at him and his face drops. Gerome has a hand loosely balled into a fist hovering over his front, waiting for the Exalt to turn around. He makes a circle motion over his chest. _I’m sorry._ He overtakes Inigo, stony-faced, to prop open the carriage doors for him.

How awful it must be, Inigo thinks, to lose your voice at the worst moments.

  
  


***

  
  


He hadn’t visited Maribelle in a while. He thinks about it when they ride past an old horse pasture that he, Brady and Owain had ridden ponies on as children. He doesn’t have flowers for her, but he should see her at least. “Can we take a detour?” Inigo asks.

Gerome tilts his head. _Where to_?

“The old Themis estate? Where Maribelle lived.”

Gerome frowns. He makes a gesture Inigo doesn't understand, then sighs and jerks his chin in the direction of the screen behind him. Inigo pulls it down to speak with the chauffeur.

“The estate’s been abandoned for years, sire.” he says quizzically. “Are you sure that’s where you wanna go?”

  
  


***

  
  


The weeds are overgrown, tearing through the walls of his childhood home and bringing their carriage to a bumpy halt. It’s a yellow green as far as the horizon stretches. Inigo feels a pit in his throat as he steps down. Where was her grave?

He doesn’t hear Gerome calling his name or the knight calling for him as he breaks into a run towards the buildings.

  
  


***

  
  


He finds it, hours later, almost completely hidden by the grass and weeds. He digs them out until the cracked, weathered stone is visible. “I’m sorry, Maribelle.” he chokes out. “I should have remembered. I should have come sooner.”

  
  


***

  
  


It’s Gerome who finds him, predictably. He wordlessly guides him back into the carriage, hand on his back as he climbs up the step. “She needs to be moved.” Inigo says immediately, when he shuts the door behind him. “It was never meant to be a permanent grave. We need to have her moved to the church mausoleum in the town proper.”

“It will be done.” Gerome says. He’s found his voice, it seems. “Give me your hands.”

He does, and realises he’s been shaking all over. He isn’t sure if it’s from the cold, but he certainly feels the chill now. How long was he out there? Did he disassociate again? Tears prickle hot in the corners of his eyes when Gerome starts to clean his fingers. He hadn’t seen earlier how they’d come away red. “It must have been so awful,” he says, voice warbling. “To wait so long and no one came. Not to clean the weeds up or settle the estate, or--leave flowers.”

Gerome starts to bandage his hands. “You found her today.”

“By sheer luck. If I hadn't remembered, she’d still be alone.”

Gerome doesn’t say, or sign, anything. He busies himself with bandaging, and then warming, Inigo realises, his fingers. He laughs tearfully, running his thumb over Gerome’s knuckle. “Rough hands.” he says.

“I’m trying to be gentler.” 

Inigo sniffles, trying to compose himself. “I wish there was something I could have done.” 

“You were a child.”

He laughs again, absolutely miserable. “It isn’t fair. It isn’t _fair_!” he chokes on his own words. “If she--if she hadn’t hidden us--if she hadn’t taken us in---”

“It was inevitable.” Gerome says, and Inigo hates him so much for that statement, regardless of any truth that may lie behind it.

“Brady didn’t deserve that.” He sobs. “Neither did Owain.”

“Neither did you.” 

Inigo squeezes Gerome’s hands, bows his head and bawls.

  
  


***

  
  


“The fields look wonderful!!” Inigo says, head halfway out the window of the carriage. “Gerome, come look at the flowers!! I haven’t seen this many in years!”

Gerome sighs. “Inigo, get your head back inside. You’ll lose your tiara.”

“It’s a _crown_ .” Inigo blusters. He settles back in his seat anyway, a smile still holding firmly on his face. “We should come back with Minervykins. I’d love to fly through those fields.” He hasn’t seen Themis like this since he was boy. He waves back at children and farmers who wave at the carriage. Spring suits it beautifully.

“I wonder if we’ll have another sunshower.” he grins. The clouds had started to gather again, in pale grey swaths on the blue of sky. “I did miss rainbows!” They pass another field of flowers, and Inigo feels a lump in his throat when he leans out the window for a closer look. Pink roses, vibrant and bright against the greens. He blinks away the tears. He wonders if they have time to visit his mother.

A rather loud sneeze rouses him from his thoughts. Gerome’s complexion looks somewhat blotchy and pink. 

Inigo smirks, tears forgotten. “Is it the pollen, Pale Rider?” he asks. “Shall I close the window?”

“I’m _fine_.” Gerome bristles. 

  
  


***

  
  


The new mayor of Themis is first to greet them before the ceremony, dressed primly and accompanied by a number of younger girls who all seem invariably busy. She bows, smiling apologetically. “Forgive me, Your Highness.” she says. “With both the spring festival and the stonework and artisan’s guild reopening, we’ve been spread rather thin.”

“Nothing to forgive, Madam Mayor.” Inigo says, returning her bow. “It must be exciting to be so busy! I saw some beautiful flowers on my way here.”

“This may be the biggest festival since its inception, milord!” The mayor smiles. “I’m overjoyed you can partake in the festivities with us.” 

“You can thank my retainer for bringing it to my attention,” Inigo beckons to Gerome behind him. “Oh, speaking of which...I don’t suppose you have any allergy masks on hand? Sir Gerome here has a terrible case of hay fever.” He can practically feel Gerome’s jaw clench.

The mayor’s smile shifts from polite to almost mischievous. “I _do_ carry a spare mask for my daughter, and I’d be very happy to lend it to you,”

  
  


***

  
  


Inigo cranes his neck to observe the hustle and bustle outside in the markets, arms raised as the maids fix his ceremonial garments. “Did you know the dancing troupe we met in the winter is performing later tonight?” He says excitedly. “Silvia-- the one with the green hair?-- she invited me onstage. I had to turn her down, of course, I’m so, so rusty.”

“Pardon me, my lord! We have to set the crown.”

Inigo acquiesces, tearing his eyes away from the scene outside, bowing his head. Before he can take part in the festivities, he has the Stoneworks Guild grand opening to commemorate. Gerome’s already sent the pegasus lieutenants to secure the area. Behind his mask, and his watery eyes, he looks like he’s dreading going back outside.

Inigo smiles ruefully. “It’s not so bad at night.”

“That remains to be seen.” Gerome says hoarsely.

“There’s tonics for it,”

“I’m not taking a _tonic_.” He says stubbornly. He helps Inigo off his stool once the crown is fully fastened, hand in rough hand. “The replica sword is in the trunk downstairs. Don’t try to swing it this time.” 

“Will you dance with me, later?” Inigo asks quietly. Gerome’s brow furrows, having missed the question. “Never mind, it’s not important. Let’s get moving.”

  
  


***

  
  


He isn’t sure what he’s expecting when they unveil the tarp on the debut piece of stonework. Something like a sundial or a fountain, but the figure was unmistakably humanoid. He breath catches in his throat when the stone visage of the last Duchess of Themis stands proudly, bows and all, in the centre of the city square. 

Inigo starts to tear up there and then, eliciting cheers and roars from the crowd. While the senior members of the guild speak, Inigo catches Gerome in the sea of people. It’s hard to discern his expression behind the floral printed mask, but his eyes stay as steady as his hands did. Inigo gestures, tapping his chin with his hand, then waving it forward slightly towards the knight. _Thank you_.

Gerome nods.

Once the stage is back to him, he says his piece, voice warbling, about Maribelle and the life she led, how steadfast she held, how poised and regal she stood and her tireless fight for justice in the courts for all people of all classes. He wishes the new artisan’s guild well, and bids everyone enjoy the celebration.

***

“You didn’t say a word,” Inigo says faintly as Gerome carefully removes his crown. “All you said was that they were debuting a piece for their guild.”

“I made a suggestion.” Gerome says. “Nothing more.”

Inigo snorts, tears the floral printed mask off his face, and kisses him. “Come dance with me.”

Gerome frowns, ears still pink. “Give me my mask.”

“This sure feels familiar. ‘Never touch a man’s mask’, hm?” Inigo grins. “No matter how flowery or pink it is.”

Later, they do dance in the square, though it’s clumsy, and Inigo does burst into tears more than once, but between Maribelle’s statue, the dancing troupe celebrating Olivia, and Gerome’s constant sneezing the morning after, he’s more than content.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lissa's body was later moved to the palace bc she's royalty/a member of the exalted family. i imagine hers was the only body that made it back (wow i made myself sad)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short update bc the next chapter.....is long

***

Inigo sometimes catches Gerome staring at him while they work in silence. He’s gotten rather good at turning to him just a half-second before he shifts his head away. He plays it off sometimes like he’s flicking through papers, but Inigo knows.

He’s gotten so good at catching him, sometimes he doesn’t need to  _ turn _ to catch him. He feels the gaze absently on his face, and smiles before tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. His smile turns into a grin when he hears Gerome huff. 

“Do I look dashing in this light, Lord Gerome?”

Gerome sighs. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh?” Inigo smirks, knowing full well how much the honorific grates on his nerves. “You let the maids call you ‘milord,’”

He makes sure to smile sunnily when Gerome looks at him with exasperation. “They refuse to address me otherwise.” he grumbles, returning to his stack of documents.

“How troublesome,” Inigo teases. “How very difficult it must be!! A knight turned lord--”

“I am your retainer.” Gerome snaps. “Not a lord. Call me by my name, not a title.”

Inigo bites his lip. “Jeez. Scary,” he says, risking further ire from the not-quite-knight. “Don’t be mad. I only meant to tease.”

“I’m not mad.” Gerome mutters. If the notch between his eyebrows is anything to go by, however…

Inigo watches him for a moment. He likes to think he knows his partner well enough to know his tell-tale signs of stress or grief. Gerome had obviously been hit with another bout of insomnia last night, if the pallidness of his complexion was anything to go by. He was usually pale, but he usually flushed easily. 

There’s also tension in his shoulders, which means he isn’t going to even try to nap in Inigo’s horrible uncomfortable seats. Which isn’t going to do anything to alleviate his bad mood. It’s a pity, he rather likes draping a blanket over his retainer while he sleeps. No one else has the opportunity after all.

Last is his fingers. Inigo watches Gerome dig the nail of his thumb into well worn calluses on his hand. Like a child picking at scabs. It’s not doing any harm -- there’s no way his hands could be  _ rougher _ , after all -- but it's a habit that practically thrums with anxiety. Gerome stops abruptly, and Inigo meets his eyes. His gaze is questioning and intense, almost daring Inigo to call it him on it. 

Inigo sighs haughtily, then puts his papers back on the table between them. He nudges his shoes out of the way and walks around the table, then promptly drops himself onto Gerome’s lap.

“Inigo, I’m working.” he hisses.

“So keep working,” Inigo says derisively. “I’m going to nap.” he leans his head against Gerome’s shoulder. “Since I’m not in such a good mood. And I wouldn’t want to take that out on my  _ loved ones _ .”

He feels Gerome’s chest rise in a sigh, then watches his hand make a circle on his front. Inigo snorts. “You’re forgiven! Now was that so hard?”

Gerome hums, shifting uncomfortably underneath him, still sorting through whatever bill was in front of him now. Something catches Inigo’s eye when he reaches forward. 

“What’s that?”

Gerome hesitates.

Inigo frowns and carefully pulls back his sleeve, clicking his tongue when he spots the bandage underneath. “That’s not from our spars, is it?” he asks. “I didn’t think I got you  _ that _ bad. Though your footwork  _ has _ been pretty abysmal lately.”

Gerome grunts in the negative, preoccupied with the bill he’s about to stamp.

“Interesting how I’ve won three nights in a row, though,” Inigo continues. “Even with the sword advantage, I don’t usually disarm you in less than 6 moves. Should I be worried, Gerome?”

“Of course not.” Gerome grumbles, twisting to stamp the bill and move on to the next.

“You’re going easy on me then.” Inigo concludes. “Why? Every time you sparred with Owain, you’d throw in a few bodychecks at least.”

“I don’t think the maids or the nurses would approve of me leaving the Exalt bruised.” Gerome responds. A loaded pause passes between them, and Inigo stifles a snicker.

Gerome clenches his jaw, heat creeping up his neck. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Inigo shifts against him, making an already uncomfortable position much less comfortable. “What happened to your arm, then?”

Gerome stamps the next bill. “Minerva and I had a...disagreement.”

Inigo lolls his head back onto Gerome’s shoulder with a sigh. “Did you ask her to leave again? You know it only upsets you both. No wonder you’ve been sulking all day.”

“I have not been sulking.” Gerome grumbles. He leafs the remaining documents between his fingers. “I don’t know why she insists on staying.” he says quietly. “There’s nothing for her here.”

Inigo reaches up, brushing his jaw with his fingers. “ _ You’re _ here.” he says. “Isn’t that enough?”

He isn't certain what's going through Gerome's head when his expression smooths out. Minerva was -- and is -- the most loyal beast Inigo had ever known. This loyalty, while centred almost fully on the boy she'd practically raised, extended out to Gerome's friends and companions. That, and Gerome's mother is still so raw a topic, he can neither speak nor sign when he thinks of her.  (Years ago, in a misguided attempt to help him confront his feelings, Inigo had brought her up. Gerome had croaked out a wounded "Stop." then wouldn't -- couldn't? -- speak for days. Inigo still feels badly about it.)

“Besides, who will watch my dances in the courtyard when it all becomes too much for me? It’s not like you know your left foot from your right.”

Gerome rolls his eyes, then brings the stamp down on each of the remaining bills one after the other. He jabs Inigo’s thigh when he’s done. “Up. My leg’s gone numb.”

Inigo blows out an irritated breath. “I wanted to nap.” he says, shifting back onto his seat.

Gerome stands. “To bed then.” he says, collecting the papers into a neat stack. “I’ll join you shortly.”

Inigo's face heats and his mouth contorts into multiple shapes before settling into an annoyed frown. “You’re still _terrible_ at setting the mood!” He springs to his feet anyway, untucking his shirt as he passes through the threshold to his bedroom. “Say something  _ nice _ to me, next time.”

“You first,” Gerome grumbles to an empty room.

  
  


***


End file.
